<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Cute One by Lollytree</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24844696">The Cute One</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lollytree/pseuds/Lollytree'>Lollytree</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Beatles (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff and Angst, Hamburg, LSD, Liverpool, M/M, Time Skips</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 06:20:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,604</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24844696</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lollytree/pseuds/Lollytree</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Paul consider the importance of their appearance over the years.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Lennon/Paul McCartney</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Cute One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>All fiction!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Liverpool 1960</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>When “Cathy’s Clown” croons over the radio, Paul scrambles to write down the lyrics. He’s planning on buying the record, but so far, it’s still sold out in the record shop. New hits run like that. “Let's make the words up,” John laughs, while watching him. “No one’s goin’ to hear our Everly Brothers impression today.”</p><p>“I want to get the bridge down, Phil’s part…” he mumbles, singing the words along. “<em>When you see me shed a tear, then you know that I'm sincere…”</em></p><p>“Guess I’ll be Don then,” John muses.</p><p>Most of their Everly Brothers act had been the opposite — considering John is righty and Don always stands left on stage.</p><p>“Hey,” John cries out, in realization. “I get to be the pretty one this time.”</p><p><em>They’re both pretty</em>, Paul almost says, before stopping himself, startled by the sudden thought. </p><p>He hasn’t given too much thought to the duo’s good looks other than their appealing sameness — they looked like two halves of a whole, unified, with their perfectly styled quiffs. Not to mention the fact birds screamed over them. Actually, now that he thinks about it, they do look perfect… two sculpted standing statues on stage. He and John could be so lucky.</p><p>“Right.” Paul clears his throat. “Be the pretty one.”</p><p>“<em>Ha</em>.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>London 1964</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Plunking away, John knows the chords sound too twangy. He sighs and starts fiddling with it, but quickly grows bored and wants to get right on to normal. </p><p>“Eh son, be a dear and tune this?” John outstretches the guitar. And Paul, who cradles every instrument like a lost child, gladly scoops it up and turns it around. He fiddles with the tuning. ‘Fine tuning’ Paul calls it.</p><p>“I ‘aven’t played a righty in a ‘bit.” He tests out the strings.</p><p>John motions a wanking movement with his right hand.</p><p>And Paul scoffs. “Yer a prick yourself, know that?” He shakes his head fondly, and trips over a wrong chord. “Whoop.”</p><p>“Want to give it here?”</p><p>“No, I’m tryin’ to remember.”</p><p>And it’s Paul, so he does, and begins playing the surefire melodies memorized on righty. “All I Have to do is Dream” — The Everly Brother’s rendition that was so <em>good</em> neither can remember any previous version.</p><p>“<em>Dream</em>, <em>dream</em>, <em>dream</em>…” he sings.</p><p>It’s such a burst of nostalgia, John has to smile.</p><p>“<em>John</em>, <em>John</em>, <em>John</em>,” Paul croons out in the same melody. And now John is really laughing.</p><p>“Cuter than Don now, aren’t chu?”</p><p>“Reckon we both are.” Paul shrugs apologetically to their idols.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Hamburg 1960</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>When there’s an ounce of spare time, they’ve become accustomed to huddling around Tony Sheridan after his band finishes performing at the Top Ten. Whether it’s sissy or not, there’s a homey feeling in locating fellow Englishmen. That, or they hope to get hired by the club as well, and it’s not too shabby of an idea to graze elbows with the other acts. John pops another prelly, and Tony laughs in his face. “Yer a fuckin’ animal.”</p><p>Paul strolls in an hour late; huffy and hair all dangly. “I see you didn’t strike out,” George says, ruefully.</p><p>“Well, like I said she’s only a part-time stripper,” Paul says, his smile dirty like this whole damn city. “Figured, going in, it’d be half more the effort.”</p><p>They laugh in congratulations, which is becoming less and less of a habit, considering how much German skirt they’ve been landing. Blonde hair overflowing like a yellow yarn sale. John wonders if their loud applause for each other’s conquests will eventually trickle into lackluster handshakes... <em>Fine job, sir, pay dirt ain’t steep.</em></p><p>But Tony cocks his head — cock of the walk at this club. “And here I was thinking you were a queer, McCartney.”</p><p>John blinks as those words slowly play in his head, despite the pulsing speed in his veins. <em>Fighting words. </em>Doesn’t matter if it’s in Liverpool, or in Hamburg, it’s still the same language. Well, maybe a tad worse in England… they don’t have transvestite clubs. But here they are, all Englanders. Same rules apply.</p><p>He watches Paul’s cheeks grow red, and bloody hell, he’ll say something if the idiot won’t.</p><p>“The fuck gave you that idea?” Paul barks.</p><p>“Take it easy,” Tony says, smirking. He waves a hand over Paul’s pinched face. “Just all that, you know. I never saw a bloke with those kinds of eyebrows.” </p><p>George snickers, probably because it’s been awhile since he got a giggle over Paul’s looks, chubby school days long melted away. “Sorry Paul, it’s either you look like a bird, or look like you need a permission slip from your dad to take one upstairs.”</p><p>“Says you,” Paul exclaims at his traitor friend. “You still look like you belong in an orphanage.”</p><p>“But seriously,” Tony cuts in once more, gravity in his voice. “You’re not?”</p><p>“Fuck off, <em>no</em>.”</p><p>John’s had enough. Sure, he’s always prone to laughing at other people’s looks… it’s just an easy thing. But this one won’t do.</p><p>“Ah he’s disappointed, Paul. You’ve spoiled all his plans.”</p><p>Paul immediately brightens, game on. “That it, then? Didn’t mean to tease,” he apologizes, sarcasm dripping in his voice.</p><p>“Alright, alright,” Tony settles. “I can’t trust you Liverpudlians. Sticking together like rats.”</p><p>Their circle breaks up as the rest of the band floods through, and John peaks over and catches Paul’s satisfied smile.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Liverpool 1963</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>As far parties go, John’s already a quarter till hammered. There’s something depressing about birthdays. He gulps another drink down. Paul is turning twenty-one and he can’t help but think of himself at that age — him and Paul running amok in Paris.</p><p>This party holds over a hundred people, and who’d of thought Paul’s old Aunt Gin would be able to cater the fancy, bourgie crowd trailing after them. Liverpool is coming up, baby. Or maybe going down. He hasn't seen Paul's face in over an hour, so what's the point of a birthday <em>anyway</em>.</p><p>He sloshes his way through the crowd, but little, spiky Bob Wooler is standing in front of him. Blabbing on about some DJ shit, and then about Brian.</p><p>“Anyway, speaking of, how was your honeymoon in Spain?”</p><p>“What?” John’s glass immediately falls from his mouth. His heart is in his throat.</p><p>“Oh, come on, John you can tell me.”</p><p>“What the hell are you saying?”</p><p>“You and Brian, I mean we all know. And I’ve known Brian awhile, you’re <em>exactly</em> his type.” Bob waves around John’s appearance. “Might as well tell me. I mean, I get it, I’m not one to judge.”</p><p>
  <em>We all know.</em>
</p><p>John’s hands are, suddenly, very free. And he sees red.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Cavendish 1967</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>“I’m going to bed.”</p><p>“You won’t sleep. Not like this.”</p><p>“Not to sleep… to lay down.”</p><p>Eventually, not far after, John slinks next to him on the mattress.</p><p>“Where were you, before?” John whispers, curiously. “Where’d you go?” Time feels funny. <em>Where were you</em>. Just now. Or the last year? Where will you be tomorrow?</p><p>“I was outside in the garden,” Paul says in a funny voice — funny voice like time is funny. “I had to, it was too strange. You were… everywhere.”</p><p>There’s a recollection of something small and big at the same time. Maybe a bit stupid, even. Pop of color at the side of John’s eye. “Here, there, everywhere?”</p><p>A rush crashes over Paul, and it tastes sweet in his mouth, but not sour like the acid. “Yeah… you were there when I wrote it.”</p><p>“Yeah,” John answers simply. It’s fine, everything is fine.</p><p>“No, but for a moment...” Paul pauses, carefully. “Still… you’re everywhere. Like emperor of eternity, of everything.”</p><p>John’s tripped enough to know what he wants to think about while he’s down under — or rather up high, so far high. He doesn’t want to hear he’s an emperor. He knows he’s not, it's too far a drop. He’s not anything. Not everything. </p><p>“Don’t say that shit.”</p><p>Paul whips his head so fast in his direction, John is afraid it’ll pop off and float away.</p><p>“Did I say the wrong thing?” Paul asks worriedly. And that’s one of his greatest fears: he’ll reveal too much of himself, and confirm what etches in his anxieties — that no one wants to hear <em>any</em> of it. He’ll be forced to lay stuck in the sticky aftermath. No options, no escape route. Paul shivers at the thought.</p><p>“I’m not… <em>that</em>.”</p><p>Paul looks at him seriously, and forgets his shiver. Instead, he feels pulled in by John’s lost expression, and inches closer. “You are.”</p><p>And he sounds buckets full of confidence. <em>Maybe I could borrow some,</em> John thinks, as he sees a silly squiggle go by, like a cartoon he might draw. Well, the very least he could do is laugh.</p><p>“Emperor… are you sure? Didn’t they say I look the original man? Like a cave thing. A <em>fat</em> cave thing. Though I don’t know how… wasn’t everyone starving to death back then?”</p><p>“No,” Paul giggles, already feeling more natural with the noise.</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“No. You look good to me.”</p><p>John nods his head in agreement. That feels exactly right. “You, too.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>Cavendish 1968</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>“Where’s Yoko?” Paul asks, as he ambles his way through the haze.</p><p>“Where’s Francie?” John asks back, imitating his froggy voice.</p><p>Paul snorts. “I don’t know, off somewhere. Off me’ head.”</p><p>“Well, I know where my chick is, she’s out fishing for her new art installation. S’gonna be dead cool.”</p><p>“Proper ring keeper you are.” Paul sluggishly salutes him.</p><p>John eyes him up and down, in his half-buttoned shirt, untidy hair, steadily gaining weight, and thinks to himself — <em>why was I so afraid?</em> Things have been easier since Yoko… so much more… balanced.</p><p>There’s a pause, and Paul cautiously looks up in curiosity. “And why you didn’t go with her?” But he watches John’s eyes narrow, and sees the blatant answer in his face — <em>you’re <strong>not</strong> the reason I’m not with her right now.</em></p><p>“Just wanted to sleep in.”</p><p>“Hm,” Paul hums.</p><p>“Miserable time to be coked out.” John gazes at the window, full of invasive sunshine. “Middle of the day blues?” Though he’s not one to talk, he could shoot up right here and now (never without Yoko). But cocaine blues — how aggressively manly<em>. Not very cute, Paul. </em></p><p>Paul shrugs. “Well, Neil was here earlier…”</p><p>But John sees through that, too. “Much earlier?”</p><p>“Figured it was good as time as any.” Paul places his hand down on the table, quicker than his brain meant to, and knocks over a notebook, or maybe it’s a song book, diary, suicide album, whatever <em>it's something paper</em>. He clumsily reaches down to pick it up.</p><p>John tracks his movements with catlike eyes, and says what’s on his mind. “Not so cute of you.” </p><p>Paul hears the insult right away. The ‘cute beatle’ and ‘the smart beatle’ seem so far away. Farther than it actually probably was. The piss-rank nicknames the newspapers conjured in order to sell like tooth-rotten candy. And wasn’t that just like John… using the past against you. John knows he hates that tag. Cute belongs to babies, Martha wagging her tail, or how Jane’s bangs used to be in disarray in the morning… Jane who no longer picks up his calls.</p><p>Cute <em>isn’t</em> a grown man.</p><p>“I’m allowed to be as human as the next, <em>aren’t I?</em>”</p><p>“Then do tell why you go ‘round prancin’ like the most well fucked god on Mount Olympus?” John pulls out a lighter.</p><p>Paul shakes his head. “It’s not that simple.”</p><p>John lights a cigarette, before passing it to him. “Ain’t it?”  </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>EMI Office 1968</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Paul had thrown a fit when he first saw the <em>Two Virgins</em> cover.</p><p>“This isn’t like you.”</p><p>“Naked in truth,” John simply called it, while Paul glared at Yoko hiding behind his shoulder.</p><p>“No, it’s <em>you and her</em> with your bushes out. If they nattered out a million questions on our haircuts, what do you reckon this will do, mate?”</p><p>“Ay that’s an easy one, it’s not a Beatles record.”</p><p>“If you’re on the cover we all might as well be starkers, too.”</p><p>“Then get busy.” John shrugged and scattered away: photo, Yoko, truth, and all.</p><p>Now, they’re huddling in an emergency meeting with the chairmen of EMI. Sir Joe Lockwood is grumbling through all the possible fall-out publicity scenarios. Apparently, there are many. “It’s art,” Yoko stresses. “That’s what’s important.”</p><p>“Well, I mean... your bodies aren’t even very attractive,” Sir Joe says, thinking if he couldn’t get them to reconsider based on logic, maybe vanity will work. “If it’s art, you should put someone good looking on the cover.”</p><p>There’s a pause, before he continues.</p><p>“Like Paul,” he says, quickly realizing he has the perfect example in front of them, and motions to him. “At least then it’d bring in more revenue."</p><p>The room goes silent, and Paul who’d been nodding his head along with every word Sir Joe said, freezes.</p><p><em>Just what I need,  </em>John thinks<em>… another old queer fawning over Paul.</em></p><p>Mildly, John feels affronted on Yoko’s behalf. But he guesses that’s part of their appeal. They look like two overweight junkies. People <em>need</em> real. So, he shrugs indifferently at this news. He doesn’t even feel the old sting of once upon a time — where his comparison to Paul was smudged between two murky lines, mostly never knowing what smudge he stood on.</p><p><em>That’s a lie</em>, a part of him immediately screams, loud like it hasn’t been for months, <em>you’ve always known the line</em>.</p><p>“Walk the line” like doughy, heartsick Johnny Cash. Cowboys always crave a gooey ending.</p><p>The line dips and drags whenever he looks at Paul’s face — sometimes his unreadable expression is bland like American tea, but simmering beneath the surface is more like spiked punched; taste still pungent from sweaty dance halls in their youth. Looking too long is a kick in the guts, or a finger slice on the guitar. Maybe the screaming inside, maybe it’s the sliver of himself not on smack or his new high-octane existence. But why should he sit and listen to that sad sack? All he ever did was make himself miserable.</p><p>Quickly, he turns to Paul, still paranoid his bandmate can sense what he’s feeling; read his mind. Tries, instead, to brainwave to Yoko. Just Yoko, only her. C'mon, <em>dammit</em>.</p><p>But Paul is squirming in his seat, eyes tight on Sir Joe, and John suddenly realizes he’s uncomfortable. “That’s... that’s a daft thing to say,” Paul says, his voice is low indignation.</p><p>“I meant no disrespect, it’s only…”</p><p>“He… They...” Paul’s eyes trail off to John’s, catching his attention. “They look fine."</p><p>John is madly grateful.</p><p>“Do you hate me?” John asks, later. “For doing this?” <em>For everything else too, </em>John wishes he could say.</p><p>Paul blows air through his cheeks. “Course not. Can’t say I’m thrilled ‘bout it. Y’know for all their screaming, I doubt fans actually want to see our cocks out. But I figure you must be ahead of me on this one, mate."</p><p>And as usual, Paul isn't against the way he thinks. Warm pleasure prickles John’s chest when he notices. Paul puts his own nude photo on their album. His dick carefully hidden behind a pole. The photo is subtle and leaving the desire to see more — so similar to Paul it burns his retinas.</p><p>The nudity almost comes as a second thought when you take in Paul’s giggly expression, an unnecessary robe flinging behind him. <em>Paul’s nudie photo would be cute</em>, John’s mind unbendingly calls out, feeling lightheartedly amused for the first time in weeks.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1967</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>“I hardly remembered our Shakespeare lines. That’s what I told him, but the nutter said it’d work out,” Paul laughs. “Or I ought to tell him to ring Mr. Lester, see what he has to say about me playing piano between scenes.”</p><p>John half shrugs, half flinches. He tries to seem nonchalant at the idea of this foreign movie schlub, Franco Zeffirelli, <em>who even sounds like a Shakespearean villain</em>, buzzing around Paul for a spot in <em>Romeo and Juliet</em>.</p><p>“So, this Italian wants you to be his Romeo, eh? Quite romantic. Doesn’t he know you’re already famous, that you don’t have to jump in his pants for a pence? He's working backwards.”</p><p>Paul blinks in surprise. He’s irritated if John’s insinuating this is the only reason he’s been offered the role.</p><p>“It’s none of that rubbish. He said I fit the image.”</p><p>“Right, sure. He needs a <em>cute</em> lad.”</p><p>Paul makes a sour face. “Well, it’s not as if I’m actually going to do it.” </p><p>Although, he could… why not… he already took the lead actress out to a club, and bloody hell she’s a pretty one. Anyway, John had filmed <em>How I Won the War</em>, right? Paul remembers the bolt of panic when their very same director from <em>Help!</em> went ahead and whisked John away for a solo movie.</p><p>“You’d be perfect for it, John.” Richard Lester had clapped John on the back. A loud echo in Paul’s ears. “It’s a real <em>look</em> for a wise guy. Smart glasses, and all.”</p><p>It took months for Paul to get used to John’s new round, wire glasses — desperately missing Buddy Holly all over again.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1969</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Paul looks out the window to the streets below, where fans forever congregate outside the Apple office. He’s the only Beatle here, and he wonders when the others will magically appear. He’s long considered it an advantage living in London, so close to their studio and business ventures. But times like these, where he’s stuck with Allen Klein, puts a damper in his earliness.</p><p>“You’re only making things harder for yourself,” says Allen, the man jumps like a cat when it’s just the two of them. “The rest are on board.”</p><p>“I’d rather talk about this when Lee is here,” he brushes off.</p><p>“Or your wife.”</p><p>“Don’t,” Paul says, eyes narrowing. He didn't want to hear this prick mention Linda again. Beyond and above this she stood. Too good for him, he's all too lucky to have her. “I’m not arguing anymore.”</p><p>There’s a long pause. “You know I have you, right?”</p><p>Paul spins around at the odd comment.</p><p>“If I have John, I have you. There’s no getting around that. It’s Lennon/McCartney, not one without the other.”</p><p>His fist curls.</p><p>“You have to quit this reluctant virgin act.” Allen steps closer. “Eventually, you’re going to say yes.”</p><p>Paul gapes at this unbelievable arsehole — he couldn’t even have dreamed him up in a nightmare, although he's been there as of late. What did he ever do to John that <em>this</em> became their only option. How far down the creek are they, really?</p><p>“The ‘will he or won’t he’ schtick isn’t cute, anymore. Not even from you,” Allen finishes. “I’m guessing this is your routine. And hell, it’s fine for business, go ahead and be 'cute' for the cameras and fans, but it’s time to stop flirting around and be a man about this.” </p><p>“You’re…” Paul chokes on a hundred livid words. “You’re not getting my signature. I don’t care what fuckin’ happens.” He storms away from the window, not bothering to watch and wait.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1966</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>John has thought it several times before — he’s going to throttle Tara Browne.</p><p>Paul looks up at him, mouth ballooned, and lips bloody stitched red. He’s got a bad scrape on his eyebrow as well.  </p><p>“I lost my balance. All over the measly moon. I mean, I’ve <em>seen</em> the moon.”</p><p>“You were high as balls.”</p><p>When Paul grins, John spies a chipped tooth. Well, there goes any upcoming magazine covers or photoshoots. Not when the ‘cute one’ is all fucked up till Monday.</p><p>“Brian is goin’ to fuckin’ kill you,” John says, and then he can’t help but laugh along, both of them gleefully knowing that’ll never happen.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1959</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Paul always loved art. Music above all, of course. But any form could do the trick for him. Writing stories in literature class, or doodling during math. When he was younger, he even imagined living as a painter. No rules to abide by… wasn’t that the life of an artist? But ever since John has gone to art school, hauling home canvases and other strays, he figures he’ll brush up on his own drawing skills. Just to stay crisp.</p><p>He sketches his favorite thing in the world — a guitar. So what if isn’t terribly maudlin. And what’s a guitar if there’s no hands to hold it? He begins drawing a body to match. A teddy boy figure in charcoal leather. Dark drainies he wishes he could buy without Dad blowing a fuse. He finishes shading the face, and it’s a distinct profile like... "<em>Oh, it’s John</em>…” he realizes.</p><p>He hovers over the drawing, wishing his own appearance looks more like this. And then, more feeling than thought waterfalls over him. </p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>1958</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>John feels tuned in like an amp, when he finally sees Paul’s face as real as a scratch. Not the day at the village fete, or as Liverpool castaways, but rather as he puts on his glasses during Paul’s first band session. When he crosses over from a foggy array of features to a clear picture, warmly developed. He already knew Paul would be handsome. Smudges can only help a person’s appearance so much, no matter how Uncle George laughingly puts it, “You’re a blind lucky one, aren’t you? Every lass will be a beauty!”</p><p>But it’s a good face, babied and new, with not a single dirty imprint — like fresh bread to sink your fingers in.</p><p>Paul turns to him with his backwards guitar. “Ready?” </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I dunno if Paul’s nude white album photo was taken before or after John’s Two Virgins cover, but either way I thought it was cute they came out around the same time.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>